Not that anybody cares, of course, but Phase II of the fencing project is finally complete, and the dogs’ world has been vastly expanded. Their new environment features two ponds for swimming (assuming they don’t dry up – which doesn’t seem likely for the foreseeable future, assuming you’re fairly short-sighted), lots of new trees to sniff and pee on, and all new vistas to survey. It’s also nice for us humans, as we can let the dogs be with us in the front as well as the back. And the front has an excellent view – especially at sunset. Phase III – fencing in the three and a half or so acres of woods – will take a while, and will probably have to happen in bits and pieces. It’s just a shame that four-letter word that starts with a ‘w’ has to keep getting in the way.
But, for today, let’s turn that dubya upside down, and wish those of you who are mothers a happy Mother’s Day. I hope those ungrateful brats of yours do something nice for you. I mean, would it kill them to remember mom one day out of the year?
Those of you ungrateful brats who have mothers should go and do something nice for them today. At least call, and can you try and suffer through without too much eye rolling and sighing, and acting like talking to your mother is killing you, ferchrissakes.
If you’re so lucky as to be able to go and visit in person, try not to be so damn snotty and quit looking at your watch every two minutes. What, it’s gonna kill you to spend a couple hours with the woman who spent eighteen months in labor and had to walk to the hospital uphill both ways (in winter, or at least during a freak blizzard) just so she could give you life and her undying, unconditional love? And for what? You don’t write, you don’t call….
And if the mother of your children is around, do something nice for her, too.
Those of us who have neither mothers nor spawn are off the hook (go do something nice for yourself while the rest of the world does its best to remind you that you’re a barren, motherless loser).
I also want to point out to you that Amazon is still eager to sell you “last minute” Mother’s Day gifts (not sure how that works – maybe you just print out a picture and hand it to them or something). Speaking of which, I was looking for Adirondack furniture (not the real stuff, which around here I’d go find some Amish or Mennonites to whomp up for me, but the fake plastic stuff), and came across this Adirondack chair squirrel feeder. Is it just me, or does this thing look kinda perverted?
It doesn’t say what kind of batteries it takes.
I have a wife, of course, but she’s neither my mother nor the mother of my children (which, if I have any, have failed to step forward and admit it) and there’s no “Wife’s Day,” because that would be redundant – let’s face it, every day is Wife’s Day.
Now, let’s hear all your best natural methods of repelling black flies (and mosquitoes, too). With everything so wet, the little bastards are out in force. Talk about useless mothers.
After viewing the hp at the Derby, I have concluded that most American women do not know how to wear a hat. American women tend to wear their hats too far back, imho.
We have a graduate of Philosophy!! :yippee:
Congratulations. OKat.
Perhaps American milliners don’t make great hats. The Brits wear their hats better but the origin of those hat feathers is disturbing.
Congradulations, OKat!
Happy Mothers’ Day to all. I’ll probably find some inappropriate post for later.
Why wait so long?
I thought that I was done but…
derby day with Hunter S:
“As the Kentucky Derby itself lasted only minutes, the party would begin a couple of hours beforehand. There was always good food and more than enough to drink, of course. Hunter’s bedroom TV would be brought into the living room for these occasions, as the assembled crowd was far too big for the kitchen. There was plenty of eating and drinking before the race, a little side betting, and of course the pool. As post time approached, the party would be in full swing. Everybody had a horse, especially the kids.
On one particular Derby day, the mayor’s daughter, Eleanor, had coughed up the cash and drawn her horse; she was pretty excited about this new grown-up thing — gambling. Unfortunately, she had a previous engagement that coincided with the exact time of the race itself. It was a strange time to leave, just before the big event, but Eleanor’s mom, Janie, a force in her own right, took her daughter in hand, made their excuses with the promise that they would return shortly, and off they went. The race in all its glory came and went in less time than it is possible to have any other kind of meaningful experience. As fate would have it, young Eleanor won the pool without being present. Hunter, after surely wrestling with the prospects of ripping her off, decided that we shouldn’t tell Eleanor about her winning but instead replay the tape of the race and let her experience it as if she were watching it live.
All major sporting events were taped at Owl Farm. An extremely prudent policy, considering the state of consciousness people were capable of achieving by the end of any given competition. It gave a reassuring credibility to the reckoning. Eleanor Bennett and her mother returned to the party after a while. Hunter grabbed a crony and told him to put in the tape of the race. In the meantime, he began to set up Eleanor for the big event, building the suspense with all his considerable skills.
Having worked the mayor’s daughter into a fever of anticipation, Hunter hit the remote. The room fell silent. Silent, except for the peak volume sounds of the hardcore porno film that appeared on the enormous TV screen. There’s something about the audio track of a top-drawer porno film that, when played at high volume, is even more obscene than the visuals. Of course, the visuals were pretty good, too. Wrong tape. An easy mistake. There certainly were plenty of tapes lying around in front of the TV. God knows what else was in there. Pandemonium ensued.
With the strangled cry of the wounded and feral, Hunter snatched up the remote, wildly thumbing every button, with zero effect. As later investigations revealed, someone had put a glass down in front of the electric eye that received the signals from the remote. But for now there was only chaos. Hunter flung the remote across the room. Close to a dozen remote controls were in front of him, scattered to either side and on top of his typewriter. He snatched them up one at a time, crazily hitting buttons at random. Small appliances sprung to life — radio, CD player, air conditioner — each one mocking him in turn as the porn film played on, still at top volume. Some fled the scene in terror or hysterical laughter. Some discovered a renewed interest in television. All the while, the mayor’s sweet young daughter stood impassively, watching closely, waiting for the race to begin.”